Seeing Is Believing
by Graysonation
Summary: One's too shy, the other one isn't sure how to put it into words . . . But the fact is, Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid love eachother . . . and now, it's just a matter of how it all comes out. (Heck yeah, this is slash!)
1. Noticing

**Author's Note: **Fine. I didn't think I was going to do it, but . . . well, a late night date and lotsa sugar cookies can put a girl into a weird mood . . . and then, you give her a computer . . . well, what do you expect to get? Welcome to the world of my first-ever slash.

I've always been fond of a romantic tale, and, as far as Fanfic goes, Morgan/Reid is most definitely my favorite. And I kind overindulged on the pairings this week, and after finishing, like, 30, I figured . . . _Hey, why not give it a go?_

I've never done this before, and I have no cues (as far as the show goes) on how to write my boys all _in lurve. _I hope they're in character.

This fic will be set in season 6 (pre-Prentiss leaving, but after JJ, if it matters) be multiple-chapter and multiple point-of-view, and (I hope) have a happy ending. (Like I said, I have no freakin' idea what the eff I am doing here . . . Should be fun to figure out, though . . . Hah.

**Warnings: **This chapter contains spoilers for Season 3, Episodes 15 and 18 ("Revelations" and "Jones," which, I might add, if you haven't seen by now, you really have no business reading reid!centric FanFiction), and major fluffy-ness on Morgan's part. Funzies.

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

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Derek Morgan had noticed a great many things in his life.

He was an older brother, of course – that was part of the job. He noticed the way that Sarah had become more quiet and giggly after she'd had her first kiss. He'd noticed the way that Desiree liked to sigh instead of yawn when she was tired.

He was a son, as well – and noticing was part of that job, too. He'd noticed how his father would put other people ahead of him at all times – even to the point of his life being in danger, and, eventually, to the point of death. He'd noticed that his mother, while insisting that he never had to come up from Quantico to spend holidays with her, always lit up whenever he _did _manage to make it.

And, of course, as a profiler, Derek Morgan was paid to do the same thing as he always did – to notice. He noticed the way that sadists always demanded recognition and fear – so he never gave it to them. He noticed how oftentimes, the team was so exhausted from work that they never got to spend a lot of time together where they _weren't _hunting serial killers. He noticed how the dynamic in is office had changed – first from tense, dedicated and stoic profilers to active and open FBI agents – and from there to associates, to friends, to family.

And, it was in that he noticed all of these things that Derek Morgan found himself noticing something else. Or, rather, _someone _else.

Morgan had noticed Spencer Reid the very first time the two had met. How could he not? It was hard to forget meeting this kind of tall, skinny, awkward, wet-behind-the-ears _kid_ with three PhD's and a license to kill (or to hunt people who did, anyway.) He'd shaken Spencer's hand upon that introduction, and, noticing the way that the kid jumped back slightly at his touch, had said, "Cool your heels, Pretty Boy." And he'd noticed the rush of blood that had flooded the young man's cheeks at his words.

As the years had gone by, Derek Morgan had noticed more and more things about Spencer Reid.

He'd noticed that work always came first for the youngest member of their team – that he was the only one who never complained about the massive piles of paperwork, the unpaid overtime, the lack of holiday weekends. He'd noticed how, if anything, Reid seemed always just a little bit happy to be doing something he so clearly loved, to be surrounded by people that he'd so clearly come to care about.

He'd noticed the way that the kid never talked about his family – and, after a few years, he'd only revealed the cowardice of his father and illness of his mother when it had been relevant to a case.

He'd noticed how the young man had changed drastically after his abduction at the hands of Tobias Hankel – how Spencer became snappish and exhausted, and had begun pulling away from the team more and more as time went by. He'd noticed the track marks one morning when Spencer was struggling to button up a stubborn vest – he'd noticed, but hadn't ever said a word. And he'd noticed the way that, sometime after JJ had started dating Sir-Thick-Accent from New Orleans, Spencer had calmed down, gotten some rest and much-needed vacation time, and had started going to 'movies' once or twice a week.

Morgan had noticed that Spencer still did.

But it had started to become something even more than that – which, of course, Morgan had noticed.

He'd noticed the way that Spencer never went out with girls much – oh, sure, there had been Lila Archer and the infamous pool-side kiss all those years ago, and, more recently, a cute little bartender he'd helped rescue (and apparently given career advice to) down on another case . . . But, besides that, Morgan had never seen the young man make an attempt to talk to females outside of work – and even then, it had taken him a long time to warm up to Penelope, Emily, or even the new trainee they were advising, Ashley Seaver. Really, it was only JJ that he'd ever become close to quickly (and Morgan had always suspected that was because he saw the blonde as something of a mother/sister, more than any romantic notions, . . . that one Redskins "date" being the only evidence to the contrary, of course).

Morgan had also noticed that Spencer, while not liking to be touched, would often flinch or twitch whenever someone's hands came into contact with any part of his body. Except with Derek himself – and Morgan had noticed that he was the only one who could ruffle the young genius's hair, pat his back, or even grab his arms and give him a hug, without getting some sort of declining action from the man.

Morgan had noticed Spencer's hair – the charming way that, as it had grown longer, it got darker and curlier and seemingly thicker – and how the young man loved to let it go until he decided to make some big new 'thing' with it; most recently, he had snipped of the nearly-foot of chocolate brown tresses into something Derek had affectionately begun to think of as a 'boy-band 'do.' _He loved that hair._

Morgan had noticed Spencer's eyes – he used to think that they were a warm brown shade similar to that of his hair, but, over the years, and after a number of close encounters with the young genius, the older agent had decided that they were more like a light shade of hazel, with small flecks of green and gold swimming in their depths. He noticed they way that those two wide orbs on the other man's face were the most expressive part of him – they were always lighting up in excitement, flickering in fear or fury or determination, or even sparkling in laughter and happiness. _He loved those eyes._

Morgan had noticed Spencer's perfect, soft lips – their pink hue danced enticingly in his dreams most nights, and it was all he could do sometimes not to try doodling them on the margins of his office paperwork. He had noticed the way that the young man bit them whenever he was stressed, or chewed on them whenever he was thinking – and it took all of Derek's self-control on those occasions not to rush forward and claim those beautiful parts as his own. _He loved those lips. _

Morgan had noticed Spencer's firm, smooth cheekbones and his pale, flawless skin. He'd noticed his delicate hands and slender pianist's fingers. He'd noticed _– oh, he had definitely noticed_ – the other man's body – the long legs that were so often hidden in unflattering trousers and ugly cords . . . the angle-y V-shaped torso that stretched in a most pleasing way . . . the arms that had gotten firmer and thicker since the rehabilitative therapy that Spencer had attended after getting shot in the knee . . .

He'd noticed the way that the young man dressed more stylishly (discarding the khakis and sweaters from days of old for more form-fitting button-down shirts, vests, stylish slacks, and Converse shoes), walked with more dignity and confidence, and even let loose with a smile or a chuckle more often than before.

And, more than anything else, Morgan noticed that he'd stopped thinking of Spencer as "Reid."

Morgan had done his best to come to terms with his feelings for his younger agent, fellow profiler, and best friend. Every morning, he'd wake up from some dream (more often than not involving the desire of his unrequited affections), sigh slightly, get dressed, and head off to work, where he would spend another day pretending that he wasn't feeling the things he was feeling, noticing the things he was noticing, or loving the thing he was loving.

_It is love, isn't it?_ Morgan wondered for the umpteenth time as he stepped into the elevator on the first floor of the FBI Headquarters, jabbing his only free finger into the "Up" button that would take him to his desk – and another huge pile of paperwork that he would have to find a way to slip to his Pretty Boy before the day was over . . .

_Really, how can you spend so much time with someone – see things for and with them that no one else sees, say things to, for, and with them that no one else hears, and have to do things to, for, and with them that no one else does – get to know them in ways that they don't even know __themselves__, and __**not**__ love them? Isn't it natural, that the sort of feelings that come from all of the emotional baggage result in falling for someone the way you've never fallen for someone before?_

Yet again, Morgan found himself with no answers, and even more confusion as he shook his head of the recurring argument. It was the same path along which he'd been thinking for almost a year, now.

He liked Spencer: like, _like _– liked the young man. And it was a problem because _that_ was never going to happen. Besides the fact that he was still dealing (or trying not to, in most cases) with this sudden upset to the scale of his sexual orientation, there was also the section of their little rulebook that said there were to be no inter-office relations between agents . . . and there were the regulations – not to mention the _reactions – _of Hotch and Strauss to take into the equation . . . Plus, of course, that oh-so-small matter that there was simply _no way _that the person in question – that is, the one that Morgan had most unwittingly fallen for – would return his affections. Reid had given no indication that he even liked dating, let alone dating _men._

And even if he was into guys, there was nothing to suggest that Derek was his type. 

And, even if he was – and even _if _there was no Section Seven, Paragraph 113 to worry about, even _if _there was no reaction from their Unit Chief, and their Section Chief, and their freakin' Department Head to fear for, and even if Spencer was capable and willing to be Morgan's one-and-only – even _if all of fell into place __perfectly_, Derek reflected morosely, _there was, without a doubt, no way that the relationship could work out. _Their job wasn't just part of their lives – it was part of who they were. It took almost everything from them – and, if Jason Gideon was any indication, someday, it would take the rest, too. And 'the rest' would include any possible relationship he might share with Spencer. And the job could take it – it _would. _

Morgan would rather pine away for something that he couldn't have than risk it all to take Spencer into a bigger part of his life, and lose him through a break-up, or a transfer, or Hell or high water, or even (he shuddered to think it) _death. _

_No, no, . . ._ Derek lamented, as the doors cracked open to face the bull-pen of the BAU, and he ambled slowly inside, coffees in his hands jiggling slightly as he pushed past droves of other agents just clocking in.

It was _definitely _better this way. _Definitely. _

Morgan hurried to sit down at his desk – or, maybe, he was hurrying so that he could be closer to the other, much neater desk beside his own. The older one, the smaller one . . . the one currently occupied by those perfect legs and that perfect face of his perfect person.

Morgan smiled easily as he bent over the small divider that separated him from Spencer Reid, and handed the young man one of the two paper cups in his arms.

"Here ya go, Kid." He grinned as the young man jumped, clearly having been startled by the sound of another voice, and flashed Morgan a terrified look for a split second before realizing that the voice had been that of friend and not foe. Spencer bit his lip (_Oh, god_) and, upon seeing what his best friend was offering, smiled brightly and reached out for his coffee.

Morgan noticed the way that Spencer inhaled the scent of his beverage deeply before taking a delicate first sip. It was almost as adorable as that purple scarf he always wore – was wearing today, as a matter of fact. He grinned.

Spencer, noticing the expression on Derek's face when he opened his eyes, frowned ever-so-slightly and asked, "What?"

Morgan shook his head at being caught, and attempted to laugh it off, dropping the second item he'd been holding in his hand on Spencer's desk.

A 5 lb. bag of sugar.

"For your coffee, Pretty Boy. Try to make it last the day."

Sitting down, Morgan could barely hear Spencer's sarcastic "Hardy-har-har" as he began shuffling the files on his desk.

The truth was, the coffees were for a different reason entirely. They were a celebration – well, a quiet form of it, anyway.

Today was October 24th. The eight-year anniversary of when Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan had first met. One week before Halloween.

After his initial first response to Morgan's attempt at contact on that day all those years ago, Spencer had put the man off. Derek had thought something along the lines of, _Oh, great, some shy little geek with a gun that weighs more than he does, _and figured that their scheduled interrogation for that afternoon would be a painful back-and-forth of Bad Cop, Socially Reclusive Weirdo.

But, later on that same day – as their first meeting, as his first impression – Morgan had been shocked to find out how wrong he had been. Spencer had been kind in the interview with the victim – gentle, open in a way no one would have expected, and, with quiet prodding and soft words and demeanor, they had gotten enough of a description to nail the sonofabitch unsub to the wall.

Morgan had clapped Spencer on the shoulder when they'd exited the facility that evening, and told him, "Hell of a profiling job, kid. Gideon was right." And, once again, the genius had blushed and averted his eyes.

That was when Morgan had started to, unconsciously, in some form or another, begun to love Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid.

It had been eight years, to the day. Morgan smiled a little when he thought on these past odd 2,200 days – and his smile grew even wider when he lamented the fact that the object of his affections could probably tell him the exact number of days, hours, minutes, seconds . . . and, of course, what everyone had been doing and wearing and saying during each of them.

Derek glanced over again at his friend, barely able to see the top of the doctor's head – although he did hear when Spencer sighed slightly in irritation, and reached up to brush his mop of tangled curls out of his eyes yet again. And he noticed the way that the man sipped his coffee and tossed a quick "Thanks, Morgan" out of the side of his mouth, somehow aware that he was being watched.

_Yep. _Morgan thought, forcing his eyes away from the perfection just a few feet to his right to his and onto the small, statute folder labeled with the official FBI insignia in front of him.

_It's definitely for the best to just look, and not touch._

_Definitely. _

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	2. Remembering

**Author's Note: **Wowzers, you guys! Thank you _so_ much for the reviews, favorites, and alerts – I started sqee-ing in my Spanish class, and Senor Cantwell made me conjugate a verb on the board . . . sew instead, I just wrote out a dirty joke, sat back down, and started squealing some more. Now I have punishment homework – which I'm ignoring so I can bring you Part II of the trifle I call "love story." (Worth it, by the way. *Grins* ).

**Warnings: **In the following work, spoilers and references can be found to these episodes of _Criminal Minds:_ "Elephant's Memory," "Memoriam," "The Evil-ution of Frank," "Catching Out," "L.D.S.K.," "Amplification," and "Jones." There's a d-bomb in here somewhere, . . . Oh, and Reid gets all teenager-y about our Bad Boy . . .

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

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Spencer Reid had an eidetic memory.

What that meant was that he could remember anything that was presented to him in a visual form – things like words, and movies, and dates and numbers.

It also added to his regular memory – that is to say, Spencer Reid had never had a problem calling to mind specific instances, conversations, people, or meetings of the past. With the way his brain worked, it really only took the young man a fraction of a second to recall anything he wanted to – and it all came in vivid 3-dimensional detail, complete with surround sound and a running monologue of subtitles in his brain.

Working in the field that he did, Reid was often praised for his extraordinary memory – "a gift," they called it, when he could think of the most obscure facts or repeat what someone had said verbatim. And Reid would nod along and look away, too polite to tell them that, more often than not, his memory was a curse.

Spencer was lanky, skinny, a certified genius, and socially awkward. And he'd grown up in a very public part of Las Vegas. Even today, more than 20 years after the first time he'd ever been picked on, Spencer Reid still could wake up in a cold sweat, images of being stuffed into lockers or called "freak," of people pointing and laughing or punching and jeering, of Alexa Lisbon and Harper Hillman and the entire football team . . . But, as always, Reid shook his head of the entirely-too-graphic details, determined not to let the bad memories in his life overpower the collection of good ones.

And it was with remembering the better moments in his 29 years that Spencer Reid found that he was grateful for his perfect record-keeping.

He could sit back, close his eyes, and play his favorite times over and over again in his mind like a film reel – going trick-or-treating for the first time as Luke Skywalker with his mom and dad, getting accepted into CalTech at only 14 years old, meeting Gideon for dinner after a profiling class at the Academy one day, getting hand-selected to the BAU shortly after as a result of that very dinner, and every case that the team had solved, every victim rescued, every life saved . . .

And even on the times that Spencer didn't feel like taking a stroll down Memory Lane, he was often perfectly content to ponder over his favorite people, instead.

He would think of JJ, and how she'd told him he was like her baby brother that time that they went to the Redskins game, or how she's named him godfather to her son to prove it.

He would smile about Garcia, the only one who had _never_ failed to cheer him up when he was upset, and the only one he had confided in about certain . . . things . . .

Sometimes, he would remember Elle and how he'd never been as close to her as het thought he should have, or Emily and the way in which he and she had been slowly re-building their friendship ever since the Hankel-thing – and how, he was grateful to know, they had become each other's sounding boards for crises, and revealed their more screwed-up personal demons to one another, not looking for answers, exactly; just for someone to vent to.

He always thought of Hotch and Rossi as a sort of extension of the same person. They were both, however unwittingly, like fathers to him. Hotch was the strict, down-to-earth persona who loved intensely and showed it sparingly. He was strong, and the symbol of perseverance to Reid. Rossi, on the other hand, was more of a doting dad, one who had an appreciation for the finer things in life and who enjoyed the happiness of others around him – Spencer always felt more at ease when sitting in silence with the older profiler than he did with any of the other members of his team.

Especially that new girl, Seaver. Reid really had no idea what to think of her – she was sweet, ambitious, and daughter of the famed Redmond Ripper. It wasn't off-putting, exactly . . . just a very personal thing to know about someone the second that they first met. Emily, JJ, and Garcia kept saying that she "liked" him, and most of the time, the girls were teasing Reid, dead-set on seeing a romance blossom from some casual get-together between the two youngest members of the team.

Spencer grudgingly took the abuse, because that was easier than trying to explain that the only person in the BAU that he saw in that way was older, unavailable . . . oh, yes, and a man.

Reid had never believed in titles like "gay" or "straight." What he believed – what his mother had _raised_ him to think – was that people would love and fall in love with the people on this Earth who would support them the most; the ones who were there in body and soul, who helped physically and mentally and emotionally. The ones who made real-life so good that you looked forward to waking up more than going to sleep – because being with them was better than any dream.

Reid loved all the members of his team, and his mother, and even, in some twisted way, his father. But the only one who he had fallen _in love_ with – his favorite person to ponder and remember, the one who made daylight exciting and nighttime less scary – was Derek Morgan.

Reid remembered the first time that he and Morgan had met. Gideon had introduced them, saying that he wanted the two of them to go and interview a victim – and potential witness – in their latest case. Morgan had tried to shake his hand and tell Reid his name, but, uncomfortable by the touch, Reid had jumped back, and then blushed as Morgan teased by calling him "Pretty Boy," – unbeknownst to either of them, the moniker would stick for many years to come. He remembered seeing the very slight look of pre-judgemental distaste on Morgan's face – the same look that most men gave Reid, appraising him as weird or inept. Reid remembered trying extra-hard in their cognitive interview that evening, determined to show the other agent wrong, determined to impress him – and, as he remembered, Reid _had_, to some extent, because the other agent, while not apologizing, had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on a job well done – and called him "pretty" again.

Reid remembered how the flush in his cheeks had only _partly_ been from the new nickname. More than that, he had been flustered because he could recognize how attractive the other agent was – Reid saw beauty regardless of sex, and he certainly got the "it" that was going on with Morgan; the confident air in the smile that he gave shamelessly, the perfect Chicklet-white rows of neat, even teeth, those firm lips . . . which, of course, Reid had never loved as much as he loved the man's eyes – a dark, sweet brown shade, wide and open and one of the only portals in Derek Morgan's body that gave away his real emotions . . .

Oh, and _his body_. Reid could remember exactly six years ago the date on which he had started noticing (admiring) his coworker's _body_ . . . The large muscles that Derek was so proud of that made him seem big and strong and safe . . . His slow, sure walk that made all of the women in the office stop and stare . . . even his delicate little dancer's feet (the one part of him that wasn't "manly") and his shaved head . . . None of it was _typical_ beauty, but Reid thought that the man was perfect. Every part of his body screamed appeal, stirring with fluidity and an undercurrent of resilience and strength.

Reid remembered how Morgan had slowly become a big part of his life once Gideon had taken a temporary leave of absence from the BAU. With the oldest profiler MIA, it was Morgan who made sure that Reid was always introduced as "Doctor," and Morgan who made sure that he always had someone sitting by him on cases, in the conference room, at other stations, during lunch, on the plane . . . it was Morgan who had given him the most support in that time of his life.

Reid remembered how Morgan had continued to support him after Gideon returned. After Spencer made his first kill. After he had been kidnapped and tortured for two days – after his second kill. After Gideon left. After JJ did. After the drugs, the Anthrax, and the thousands of questions and rants, the spastic trips and geeking-out and weird comments and even weirder looks, Derek Morgan still stood proudly beside Spencer Reid, like a brother, a protector, and a friend.

Reid remembered when he had first noticed his feelings toward Morgan really beginning to change – when the thoughts of quiet love became longing, and wishing became want – when lust itself was first introduced.

_"I'm __not__ sleeping with Reid."_ _Morgan had sounded defensive and aggressive – yet, at the same time, there was that teasing incredulousness that kept Reid from losing his temper over the joke. Rather, as the groups divvied up (and it was Reid who wound up getting a room to himself) and Spencer passed the older black agent on the stairs, he murmured, smiling,_

_ "You __wish__ you were sleeping with me, Derek." At the look of shock and (had it been?) delight on his friend's face, Reid barked out a laugh and hurried up the stairs. _

Reid could remember every interaction between them since that one, all of the words and smiles, the touches and looks, and (on his part, at least) the thoughts. He remembered feeling a sort of pining for Morgan – and he remembered learning how to shelve his feelings, and force himself to pretend that his friend was just that – a_ friend. _It wasn't hard, exactly. Spencer had fallen for people before that he'd had to hide from. _Had to,_ because, in general, people didn't react favorably to his attentions. Alexa Lisbon had proved that. And when he tried again to spurt out some indication of his crush on another of his associates, he had almost lost his treasured friendship with Ethan when graduating college. He'd made the man uncomfortable enough with his confession to drop out of the FBI Academy – and though Ethan insisted that he never would have made it as an agent, anyway, Reid always felt a surge of guilt when he thought of it; no matter what his friend said, Spencer knew that his inadvertent "I love you" had been a factor in the other young man pursuing a different career path. He was just happy that they had been close enough that they were still friends to this day, never again bringing up those three, terrifying words.

Reid remembered how his relationship with Derek had started to change over the many years that they had been colleagues. Where before there had been a hesitance to hugs and pats and handshakes, now there were tingles whenever he brushed up against the other man. Where there used to be a stiff upper lip when it came to the teasing, now there was always a witty response or two on the tip of his tongue. Where before there was nothing, now there was a something _pretending_ to be nothing.

Reid remembered all of this every morning, now. He would be out of the shower and getting changed for the day, always wondering if maybe he could dress in a way that would be more . . . appealing . . . to his fellow agent, when, aware of the direction that the thoughts were starting to take, he would shake his head and sigh away the desire.

_Never gonna happen. Morgan is as straight as they come. _

Reid tried not to think of the studies he'd read fervently (hoping, wishing, wanting) that suggested that men were more likely to be bisexual than women, tried not to think of how he was the only one that Morgan called "Pretty Boy" and the first person that the other agent would come to in a crisis. He would always grab his thermal mug of coffee and MetroCard, and spend the entire ride into work _not_ thinking about it . . . Until he _was_ thinking about it.

Today was no different from any other day. Well, it was, but not in that sense. Reid dressed up just a little bit, throwing on his favorite purple scarf that, according to the girls, always made women (_and men_) give him a second glance. He didn't use any product in his hair or wear any cologne – but, for just a second before Reid strode out the door, he looked in the mirror on his key table, and contemplated his reflection.

_Eight years today,_ he thought. _Everything's changed. But nothing has, too._

Reid spent the entire trip to work thinking (having failed _not_ to) about Morgan, not even noticing when he finished his coffee before reaching his stop.

That was okay, though. If tradition held, he'd have another one soon enough. He'd noticed that, for the past seven years, every October 24th, Morgan would bring in an extra cup from Starbucks to work with him – a cup containing premium dark-roast, with exactly ten packets of sugar mixed in thoroughly.

Oh, sure, Morgan (and the rest of the team, for that matter) brought in coffee all the time, and more often than not were willing to share it. But it was only Morgan who arrived carrying two cups on this day – always two, one for him and one for Reid, and always on the morning of the 24th, a year's anniversary to when they first met.

Reid climbed up the stairs in the FBI Building three at a time, hoping that today would be no different.

He had only just barely gotten settled into his desk chair and pulled the tremendous stack of piles towards him (_Prentiss and Morgan, I swear . . ._) when his phone dinged excitedly with a text.

Knowing already what it would say, Reid bit back a sigh when he opened it.

**_Happy Anniversary, LOL. Did he bring the goods?_**

Garcia was the only one who Reid had talked with about his personal dilemma. At first, while not altogether shocked that her junior G-man had feelings for a male, Penelope had found it fascinating that _Derek Morgan_ was the one Spencer had latched on to. Then, upon recovering from her surprise, Garcia had started (and had yet to cease) planning for ways to get her two boys together. She reported things like Morgan's recent decline in _female _sexual conquests to Reid, as well as observations that she had seen him staring at Reid whenever the young man was reading or too busy to notice, and even shown him a picture Morgan had scribbled on the back of one of their folders that looked "suspiciously" (and, really, Reid could only see it if he squinted and gave a lot of use to his active imagination) like a certain young doctor on the BAU team.

Reid couldn't help but smile a mirthless smile as he tapped out a response to Garcia. Morgan was the one who had taught him to text so that the two of them could communicate more easily, and yet, here he was texting a different sort of friend about the aforementioned man instead.

**_He isn't here yet, Garcia. _**

Garcia had been trying to persuade him that there was no reason that Morgan wouldn't return Spencer's feelings – which Reid didn't believe. And, of course, that even if he did not, there was no reason that their friendship had to change – which Reid didn't want. And that there was no way that he would lose Derek forever if he were to make a move – which Reid didn't need.

All Reid really believed, wanted, and needed, was to stop feeling this way. Getting over a person was never as hard as having to deal with _not knowing._ (Morgan himself had once said something similar, about how remorse was temporary and natural, but hope was paralyzing.)

Reid trusted Derek, was what the bottom line came down to. Morgan was the only one who could touch Spencer, who could tease him and play with him, and who could know him to the extent that Reid had allowed Morgan into his life. He loved Derek, yes, but, more than that, he _trusted_ him. And it was only because of that trust that Spencer had decided that he could talk to Morgan about the _things_ that had been running through his head.

Garcia had been delighted when Reid told her his plans (if Derek remembered the coffee today, he would reveal all; tails, he wouldn't), and insisted that they double-date with her and Kevin once they "did the dance with no pants." Not wanting to reveal how agonizing the subject was, Spencer quietly reassured her that this wasn't going to bring him and Morgan together – it was just so that Spencer could get his rejection and then some closure. And, someday, he would move on, surely.

But first, he had to take a deep breath and do the thing that terrified him the most.

Which was why he was wondering why it was taking so damn long for Morgan to arrive.

His phone chirped again.

**_He'll remember, sweet-cheeks. _**

When Reid didn't respond after a few minutes, Garcia sent him another message.

**_It'll be so cute when you two have 2 anniversaries on the same day!_**

Reid smiled again – he couldn't help his somber mood, the woman was infectious – and sent back a small **_We'll see_** before closing his phone and getting started on the huge stack of files in front of him.

"Here ya go, Kid."

Reid jumped, thoughts ripped quickly away from the possible serial burglar-turned-murderer in Lancaster and turned instead to see Derek Morgan standing at the desk next to his, smiling widely as he greeted his younger colleague.

Holding _two_ cups of coffee.

Reid instantly smiled at the sight of the man he *gulp* _loved_ before him, and, trying not to shake, reached out for his coffee. He brought the warm paper cup to his face, inhaling the intoxicating scent of coffee beans and cinnamon so that he didn't have to put himself through the agony of smelling Morgan's cologne instead.

He looked up after taking the first, burning sip, and caught Derek grinning goofily at him.

"What?" Reid asked, nervous that he might have fluttered his eyelashes or moaned or something embarrassing like that.

Derek, his grin growing even wider, if possible, reached out the had hidden behind his back and dropped something with a lout thud onto Spencer's desk.

A bag of sugar.

Reid knew exactly what was being implied, and didn't even listen as Morgan made some smart-ass comment about how much sweetener he liked in his coffee. He forced out a very sarcastic laugh, and then turned to drink his second cuppa and pretend not to notice that Morgan removed his leather coat to reveal a gorgeous black T-shirt (_must be a new one . . ._ Ried figured, as he had never seen the top before – and besides his extraordinary memory, there was no way that the way the shirt was hugging the other man's body would have let Reid forget _that_ particular outfit, anyway).

His phone went off one more time, and Spencer glanced at the screen.

**_That's a new shirt. Looks GOOD, dontcha think? :)_**

Reid's brow furrowed, and he glanced around before being interrupted by another text from his favorite tech analyst.

**_It's the FBI, not the CIA, sweetie. I hacked the cameras._**

_Of course,_ Reid thought, shaking his head. He looked up at the nearest monitor up in the corner of the bull-pen, and gave a little wave.

_Chirp!_ went his little Samsung.

**_You gonna tell him?_**

Reid debated answering for a moment, and took another sip of his coffee. His hair fell into his eyes as he bent down, and he irritatedly pushed it back. He wondered how it was all of those boys in the dance bands were able to stand it . . . _Maybe I should just cut it again_, Reid mused. _At least then Morgan –_

Oh, right. Morgan.

Realizing that he's never thanked the other agent for the coffee, and embarrassed by his impoliteness, Reid mumbled a few quiet words of gratitude out of the side of his mouth, unable to turn and see if the other agent had even heard him, for fear of his burning cheeks being revealed.

He couldn't go on like this, though.

Reid snapped open his phone once more, and typed out a quick, final message to Garcia.

**_Tonight, when we leave._**

His phone rang then, and the Caller ID said "Penelope." Reid answered, sure he was about to be hit with a barrage of squealing and giggling.

Instead, he heard a hushed voice, barely above a whisper, dripping with seriousness and resolution.

"Good luck, baby boy."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Author's Endnote: **And the plot thickens . . . _whoooooo_ . . .


	3. Defining

**Author's Note: **Dang, guys! You have _got _to find something better to do with your time than reading this crap . . . Oh, wait. I forgot that I'm the one writing it. Yeaaah . . .

Anyhoo, I just wanted to holler my thanks to all of the lovely people who took the time to review – and my guest reviewers, who, alas, I could not PM my gratitude, so they get the shout-out up here, in the prestigious Author's Note. The comments, messages, follows, and favorites always make me punch the air, and then click open Word to work on another part of the story.

For those who have asked, this is gonna be where the "Angst" tag on my description finally comes into play. Look for some heartache – oh, and this is the first chapter with some real-dialog; I've spent two chapters setting the scene, now it's time to let my sick imagination go wild. Yahoo.

**Warnings: **Hmm. I'm looking . . . I'm looking . . . I'm loo-ooking . . . Nope, no spoilers to report. Some mentions of drug-use (but this is Reid, so when is there not, really?) and a mild bit o' the swearing . . . otherwise, it's just the usual melodrama . . .

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Maybe it was the benefit of being a lovable, adorable, giggly social butterfly (Reid didn't know, as he was not one) or maybe it was the offering to pay for the first round (Reid didn't know, as he had never done that) or perhaps, most likely, it was simply the threat of hacking all of the computers at the FBI for the foreseeable future (Reid didn't know, but, God, he _hoped _not) but, somehow or other, Penelope Garcia had worked her magic around the office, and, by the end of the day, had managed to persuade every member of all the BAU teams to join her for some post-work drinks – without alerting Morgan to the festivities, lest he be suspicious or inclined to join along.

And so it was that at around 5 o'clock that evening, the office was rapidly emptying, with the various agents and analysts exchanging pleasantries with one another as they grabbed their coats and headed off for some much-needed down-time. Reid watched them file out as he pretended to go over the last case file in his (and, of course, Morgan's and Prentiss's) stack of paperwork. With every handshake and shout of "Goodnight!," he grew a little more anxious, a little more excited.

_This was going to happen._

He watched as Morgan bid farewell to a couple of the agents as they left, and was a stomach-twisting mixture of delighted and terrified as Garcia, the only person left in the room besides himself and the black agent, gave him a thumbs-up and a wink over the back of Morgan's shoulder as she hugged the other man goodbye before snatching her coat and strolling out the door, as well.

And then, with the silence in the room becoming slightly overwhelming, Reid put down the case he had been pretending to be engrossed in, and excused himself to the little kitchenette the teams all used, under the pretext of needing to wash his coffee mug. There, as he cleaned up the messes from throughout the day and ran his favorite cup under a stream of hot water, Reid gazed at Morgan and tried to sort out his cluttered thoughts.

_Should I just inform him flat out of my feelings? It could be –_

_An absolute train-wreck; this is Morgan –_

_I love Morgan –_

_Morgan__ here. He'll already be freaked out because you're being stupid –_

_Maybe I can be smart about it, and –_

_And what? Tell him that he's the yin to your yang? –_

_No, tell him that he's a big part of my life –_

_A big, __**massive, unstable **__part –_

_And that I don't think I can live without him –_

_Which you'll have to do after this –_

_No, I won't, Derek's my best friend –_

_And that's __all__ he is –_

_I know that –_

_Do you? You just called him 'Derek,' –_

_I __know.__ I just need closure, and then I'll be fine. –_

_Will you? –_

_I'm sure of it._

_Are you –_

"Are you about done with that, Kid?"

Reid jumped, startled by the sound of a voice so close to his ear, ripped away from his thoughts as the very person who was causing such internal distress gave him a curious look, raising his eyebrow and gesturing towards the sink – which, Reid realized a second too late, was starting to overflow.

"What? Oh, um . . ." Reid fumbled over the tap, finally managing to twist it off and then looked helplessly over his shirt, the front of which was drenched with warm, soapy water, and shrugged sheepishly, glancing back up at Morgan – who just looked amused.

"Yeah, I suppose so. Want me to get that for you?" He gestured to the mug in Morgan's hand.

The other agent smiled his thanks, and handed the cup over. He watched for a second as Reid began to rinse it off, and then returned to his desk as the younger man finished the dishes, and proceeded to drain the sink and wipe down the small counters.

As Reid returned to his desk, he saw that Morgan had slipped back into his leather coat, and was gathering up the remaining files he had to go over.

"Are you leaving?" Reid asked, trying to cover the upset in his voice.

Derek flashed a strange look at the other man's tone, and nodded as he straightened up. "Yeah, man. Gotta feed Clooney, and then there's a game I was thinkin' I could watch while I finish these up." He raised the stack of paper in his hands, and turned to exit. "You wanna leave with me? I thought you were already finished anyway, Pretty Boy."

Flushing slightly at the use of the name he secretly loved, Reid gulped and shook his head, trying to shoo away the nerves that were threatening to overtake him.

Hearing no response from his partner, Morgan looked up, and saw the other agent shifting on his feet, fidgeting with his hands, and looking just past Morgan himself as he bit his lower lip and appeared to be chewing something over in his mind.

Concerned, Morgan raised his voice a little. "Reid?"

Hearing his name, Spencer looked up, and, meeting Morgan's worried eyes, seemed to both deflate and stiffen up a little at the same time. He opened his mouth to speak, and, for a second, nothing came out.

And then,

"A-Actually, I was h-hoping we could t-talk – f-for just a second?"

* * *

Hearing the other man's tone, Morgan was immediately concerned – Spencer _never _sounded like that, tripping and stumbling over his words as if they were landmines.

_Well, he __almost__ never sounds like that_, Morgan reflected, as he put the weighted stack of files in his arms down on the nearest desk, and then leaned up against it, crossing his arms and regarding the nervous genius before him.

_He got all cute – _Morgan had to shake that word out of his head (it _so _wasn't the time to be thinking like that!) _– when he was trying to talk to Lila, or that Austin chick. And he squeaks like that when there's a dog around . . . or –_

Morgan eyes widened slightly, and he recalled one other time that Spencer Reid had had a tough time speaking, had stuttered and croaked had the pitch and volume of his voice crack while he talked . . .

_But, no_. _He wouldn't do that. No._

Morgan was so distressed by the even slight possibility of a chance that his friend could be _doing that_ that he almost missed Spencer's next words. Or his next attempt at a coherent sentence, that was.

"I – I just wanted to – you and I have b-been friends for a while now – I mean, well, actually, about eight years – well, exactly eight years, to the day, as a matter of f-fact – b-but we weren't friends the whole time – but _most_ of the time, I mean, we _were – _we _are –_ and, you know, statistically, when two p-people have been friends for longer time period than five years, they'll s-start to grow c-closer than a number of the other people in their lives – which can include family – and you _are_ like f-family to me, Morgan, which isn't to say that you're n-not my best friend, t-too – you _are_ – and I've b-been trying to – "

Morgan watched incredulously as the young man before him seemed to lose all power of speech, rambling on and on, faster and faster, gesturing more and more wildly with his hands as he kept averting eye-contact, and his face began to flush again.

Clearly, he was distressed . . .

And Spencer had been more distant lately, at least towards Morgan . . .

And he was here, babbling and ducking his eyes away from Morgan's, darting his hand up to push the hair away from his face, even when it was already back . . .

Morgan grew even more apprehensive as Spencer continued on, his voice approaching full-on collision mode.

" – what I mean to say, I g-guess, is that – because on the last eight nights – this night, I mean, the 24th of October – you always b-bring me a c-coffee – which I love, I mean – b-but – is it because? –"

"Reid."

The young man finally ceased his incessant monologue, and his eyes shot up to meet the penetrating gaze of Derek Morgan, as the older agent, forcing himself not to grimace, asked the thing he so very much didn't want to ask.

"Man, are you okay?"

Spencer looked at him, clearly confused. He nervously licked his lips, and Morgan bit back a sigh as he tried to make his question more specific – without being too obvious.

"I just . . . You're acting really upset, Reid. And you're . . . you know, you're _never _upset like this . . . So, I gotta know . . ." He trailed off, not wanting to say it, and Reid cocked his head, waiting to hear it.

"Are you . . . Are – are you using?"

* * *

Reid tried his very best not to let the hurt show on his face – but he must have been unsuccessful (_so stupid to try that with a __profiler_), because Morgan's face immediately crunched up in regret, and he took a step towards Reid, an apology already on his lips.

Reid backed up ever so slightly, and, fighting not reveal any trace of anger on his tone, said quietly, "No."

He cleared his throat, forced himself to lock gazes with Morgan, and repeated, "No!"

"Reid, I – "

"God, Morgan, I know I'm not perfect, but, really, how can you just jump to conclusions like that?!" Reid was starting to lose his control over his temper.

"Hey, Reid, I didn't mean for it to come out like that – "

"Like what? Like you don't trust me to take care of myself? Like I have no control? Like –"

This time, it was Morgan who interrupted Reid.

"Reid, I _never_ said that. And I don't think that, either, kid! You're just, . . ." Morgan swallowed, trying to figure out how he'd screwed this up already.

"You're just acting really, . . . I dunno. Upset."

Reid frowned slightly. "That doesn't mean I'm under the influence of drugs! It doesn't even mean that I'm thinking about them!"

Morgan tried again to regain control of the tail-spun conversation. "I know that, K –"

"Do you? I have trouble putting one thought together, and your first reaction is _drugs?" _Reid sucked in a breath, and pushed on before Morgan could break in.

"Maybe something _else_ is on my mind, Derek! It could be the last case – that's not too hard to imagine, _right?_ Or maybe I'm sick – or maybe my mom is! Or what if it's Hotch? Or Emily, or Penelope? What if I was concerned about them? Or _you? _What if, you presumptuous _ass_, it's _you_ that's been upsetting me, _Mr. Macho Derek Morgan?!"_

Reid hissed the last part, and then clamped his hands over his mouth as soon as the words were spoken, shocked with himself, and immediately turned away.

_That was stupid. So, so stupid. You're going to push him away before you can actually say – _

"Did you just call me Derek?"

Reid tried not moan into his hands. _That was even __more__ fucking stupid . . ._

"I'm sorry," he pushed out – and he really was. The team never referred to one another by first name – at least, not on the job. It added a much-too-personal level to their work, and made each case all the harder to examine from a third-person-point-of-view.

"I don't know what – God, I'm sorry, Morgan. That was – I just, I got so upset about the – the . . ." Reid shook his head, and unclenched his fingers from his hair, struggling to cover how shaken he was, burying the emotions beneath as casual a demeanor as he could muster. He took in a deep breath and straightened up, about to speak again, when he felt warm hands clasping his shoulders, turning him around so that he was staring at the very toned chest of Derek Morgan. Ripping his gaze away from the _delicious_ body, Reid looked into those eyes that he so adored, and forced himself not to blink as Morgan finally spoke.

"Kid." Morgan's gaze was penetrating, and Reid squirmed slightly, feeling as if the older agent was seeing right through him.

"What is it?"

Reid's eyes scanned over Morgan's entire face rapidly, as he struggled inside with the question.

_Yes, or no? _

He went with yes – and hoped to get one in return.

Blinking rapidly as he built up what little courage he could find, Reid asked, his lip quivering, "C-Can I . . . Can I show you something?"

Morgan watched him for a long moment, before nodding minimally.

And Reid rushed forward, and planted his lips on Derek's.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Author's Endnote: **Yep. I just did that.


	4. Moving

**Author's Note: **I'm just going to defend myself right now; I genuinely _love _cliffhangers when I read – that whole break between one awesome chapter and one awesome ending is so much fun, fantasizing about all the possibilities, wondering, wishing, wanting . . . But, judging by the PM's I've gotten, y'all don't enjoy them too much. Very sorry.

Also; this was originally going to be my last chapter, complete with a lovely ending and more kisses with a big fat bow on top. Unfortunately, I had a terrible-awful-no-good-very-bad day at work, and I came home in a terrible-awful-no-good-very-bad mood, and when I started this chapter, I wrote some terrible-awful-no-good-very bad things . . . guess I'll need to squeak out another couple thousand of words to rectify the nasty things I did below. I'm sorry I did them, but what's done is done. I'll make amends later.

This is my favorite chapter (so far, I mean; man, the angst!) but I also think it might by my most poorly written, OOC-wise. So, I apologize for that, too.

And, last but not least; thank you once more for all of the delightful reviews, follows, favorites, and alerts. It is only because of those that I came home from work today and sat down to scribble more Fanfic, instead of taking that rude customer and roundhouse-kicking him in the . . .

I'm off-track. Saw-rry for that, as well.

**Warnings: **No more spoilers, aye-aye. There's just some "adult" language, and a little physical stuff (so those of you with virgin mindsets, prepare to lose them) later on.

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

For just one hair of just one fraction of just one second, Morgan allowed his mind to be taken over by the sensation of those luscious, pillow-y lips on his own, and pushed all coherent thought from his head as, without realizing what he was doing, he leaned in to the other man, savoring the first taste of this first kiss that he had wanted for _so long. _

For just a fraction of a second more, Derek Morgan, man of few words and only slightly more self-control, had a thousand thoughts marring in his head, running into one another as he struggled to process them at the same time he was processing the other man's mouth laying so firmly on his.

_Not really –_

_Yes, really –_

_Tastes so good –_

_Can't believe the kid knows how to –_

_Did he actually –_

_Am __I__ actually –_

_A little bit –_

_No, a lotta bit –_

_So good__ –_

_That's because it's Spencer –_

_Spencer –_

For just that one second, Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit managed to shove out of his mind the fact – the reality – that the person with whom he was currently trying to stifle a moan and control his hands with was _Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit._

Instead he moved closer to the genius, as his hands started to glide away from Spencer's collarbone where they had been resting, lightly fluttering over the other man's skin as they began to lower – and then they bumped past those skinny little shoulders.

_Reid's_ skinny little shoulders.

Reid.

Spencer Reid.

His friend Spencer Reid.

His friend and co-worker.

Agent Reid.

Dr. Agent.

Asexual, emotionally-repressed, shy, revenge-seeking, prank-loving Dr. Agent Spencer Reid.

The man whom he had pulled a joke on this morning, with that stupid sugar-thing. The man who engaged in a number of little stunts himself, who never let a good deed go unrewarded . . .

The man whom he was currently _kissing._

Thoughts, realizations, and revelations clanging about in his head deafeningly, Derek Morgan suddenly came to his senses, and his eyes shot open.

He lifted his hands from where they had been lingering over those (_beautiful_) pale shoulders, and placed them instead on Spencer's chest, shoving hard.

But not so hard as his voice, which was yelling over the clatter of Reid banging into the desk behind him and scattering Morgan's precarious pile of folders all over the ground.

"_What the Hell?!"_

* * *

For just one instant, Spencer Reid was, for the first time ever, not thinking anything.

He had let himself be impulsive, had let the instincts take over, _had done what he wanted to do_ for the first time since he'd learned that he wanted to do it, and now . . .

Well, now, he his mind was a blank, and his body was making up for that fact, taking total control as he stood there, kissing Derek Morgan.

He suppressed the shudder of pleasure that tingled down his spine, and tried not to pull back when he thought – he _hoped_ – he felt the other man pushing into him

_It was actually happening. _

_It was real._

Maybe it was the stomach-twisting delight, or the rush of endorphins; maybe be was impulsive and taking control, or maybe he'd lost his self-control, and his mind along with it. But Spencer closed his eyes, trying to let just the barest fluttering of all that he was _feeling _guide him through this – this _thing_.

He _felt_ the warmth of Derek's body, strong and resolute and tense, twitching ever so slightly as the other man, too, was seemingly taken under.

He _felt_ roughness of Derek's lips, moving just barely underneath his own, as if trying to say something, or maybe just sinking into the _deliciousness_ of their embrace.

He _felt_ –

He felt the hands of Derek Morgan painfully shoving into him, hard, and he stumbled back, the rush of a sudden flood of shock in his ears almost blocking out the words that the other man spoke.

Almost.

"_What the Hell?!"_

Reid winced at the loud volume of the words – but it less that, and more the fact that the words were spoken at all that hit the young man in such a physical way.

_Oh, God._

_OH, GOD._

So said Derek, and so Reid was thinking: what the _Hell_ had he done? Reid stared at the floor, the horror of the reality of the situation sinking into him.

_He'd kissed Morgan._

_Morgan._

_Why did I do that?_ Reid thought to himself, agonized, as he forced himself not to look up, not to meet his friend's eyes – if they would even still be friends after they way he'd just assaulted the black agent.

_Stupid. _

_So stupid._

_ So. _

_Godamn. _

_STUPID._

If Reid had been voicing his thoughts, he would have been screaming, so intense was the antagony inside of him. And, perhaps even more than that, the terror of the consequences of his actions.

It was just like what he'd done with Ethan.

_So stupid._

But _they_ had managed to ignore _that,_ and stay friends . . . _they_ had pulled through . . .

_Maybe Derek – no, it's Morgan. Morgan! – and I can ignore __this__. So stupid . . . we can forget it, it never happened . . . Maybe . . . Please . . ._

Spencer shut his eyes for a second, and peeked through the mess of hair in his face at Derek – Morgan! – trying to gauge the other man's reaction.

If the look of fury on his fellow agent's face was anything to go by, it wasn't a good one.

_Maybe not. _

The next words spoken came again from Morgan, and they were said with such deadly, quiet calm that Reid jerked once more before forcing himself to look up – to stop stalling, to reap his reward, to get his comeuppance. He met Morgan's gaze, and tried to control his shaking.

"You're sick."

Reid felt his lip quiver at those words – it was what he's heard other people say about him – and, hating himself for how his voice trembled, tried to speak.

"D-Derek, I – "

"You are _unbelievable_." Derek cut back in, snarling, not giving Reid the chance to – _to do what,_ even he himself didn't know.

"I – I – "

"You think it's okay to mess with me like that? To attack me, to attack _who I am_, to _fuck _with me? My _feelings_? You think it's _funny?"_

Reid shook his head desperately. "I – I n-never thought it was f-funny, Der – "

"_DON'T CALL ME THAT!" _the other man roared, finally letting his anger show, and Reid almost jumped again as he forced his eyes back up again from his feet, and locked gazes with one extremely pissed-off Derek Morgan as he continued yelling.

"Don't you _dare_ call me that, Reid. _Don't._ This isn't some little thing, this isn't okay – so don't you _dare_ fucking call me _that_ like it's just no big deal! It's _NOT."_

Reid gulped and nodded, trying to stave off Morgan's anger before either of them did something they would regret.

_Too late for that, _he thought bitterly.

"I," Reid swallowed hard, and continued, his voice shaking almost as badly as his body now. "I w-wasn't trying to be funny. I – I would _never – "_

"You already did." Morgan's words were harsh, and it broke Reid's heart to hear him speak to him like that – the way that he spoke in interrogations. With unsubs.

_Was it that bad? _

Reid answered his own question.

_Of course._

Morgan was still giving Reid a look that could have killed, and when he spoke again, it was quieter than his earlier screaming – but still said with a speed that made apparent just how furious the other man was.

"How could you do that?"

Reid tried not to let his growing fear show as he answered.

"I – I swear, M-Morgan, I – I didn't _mean to. _I was j-just – and you were – I m-mean, if you _hadn't – "_

"If I hadn't _what?" _Derek hissed, cutting off the other man. When Reid remained silent, Morgan slammed his fist down on the desk behind him.

_"WHAT?"_

Reid choked slightly, and shook his head, trying to keep what composure he still had as he figured out what he had been trying to say – whatever the hell it was.

"Are you saying, _Dr. Reid,_" Morgan broke the silence, whispering menacingly, "that what you just fucking did was _my fault?"_

Shaking, Reid hurried to speak. "N-No! I didn't mean that, M-Morgan, I swear. I was just trying to explain – "

"_Explain?" _Morgan looked, if possible, even angrier, and Reid shrank back further.

"You think that there is an _explanation _for that kind of messed-up shit you just pulled?" When Reid looked to be starting up again, the other agent silenced him simply by speaking over him.

"So, what, I make a joke this morning – and despite that you think the world is out to _get you_, Reid, that's all it was – a _joke – _and then, what? You decide that the best way to react is to pull one of your stupid pranks and _screw with me? To screw with me by doing __that__? _That's _messed up_ – even for _you!"_

Reid knew that Morgan wasn't thinking straight, was trying to hurt him – which was the only reason he didn't jump on the other man for that last remark so dripping with underlying meaning . . . about him, . . . his mom . . .

Spencer forced his thoughts back to the present – as horrifying as it was becoming – and managed to keep his tone steady.

"It _wasn't_ a prank, Mor – "

"What was it, then?" Morgan's tone was pulsing with fury, and Reid heard him take another step closer, saw him raise one hand slightly, and he couldn't help it – he flinched, ducking back a step, raising his hands to protect his face, and, despite his trying to stop it, a small whimper found it's way through his lips, sounding much louder in the room than it should have.

And, utterly terrified, he waited.

* * *

If having a heart break had a sound, Derek Morgan would say it was the same as the one that came from Spencer Reid when he stepped closer to the young man – who retreated back, covering his face and curling into himself protectively, letting out a frightened whimper.

It was the same sound that slammed Morgan back into reality, the same sound that stopped him from seeing red in front of his eyes, and instead focus in the small, quaking figure of his best friend before him.

His best friend who was _scared_.

_Of __me_, Derek realized, the horror sinking in.

_He's like this because of . . . because of me?_

Morgan suddenly became aware that his hand was raised, as if he had been going to hit Spencer . . . And he looked from his outstretched limb to the agent before him, and back and forth again. And again. And again.

_God. _Reid spooked so easily, and now, here _he_ was, his "best friend," screaming and ranting and practically foaming at the mouth, all the while acting like he was going to attack the young genius.

He lowered his hands, still in a shock over his behavior.

Morgan took a very light step forward, and reached out to grab Spencer's shoulder.

The young man flinched away from his touch, cringing in fear.

Morgan inhaled sharply, hurt by the reaction and angry at himself for being the cause of it. He'd screwed up, big-time. He knew that. But he had to fix it.

So, waiting a second, breathing in and trying to keep calm, Morgan spoke, low and quiet.

"You flinched."

* * *

Reid looked up when the other man spoke – it had been a while, and he wasn't sure that Morgan was going to punch him anymore – _he would have done it already . . ._

And he was hit by a crushing wave of shame when he saw the ghostly expression on Derek's face. The man no longer looked angry . . . just hurt. And sad. And there was something else on his face . . . like, surprise . . . or maybe shock was a better word for it.

He looked _ill._

**_I _**_made him feel way, _Reid realized, a hot flash of guilt strangling his body, as he processed what his friend (if he even still was) had said.

_My fault. That kiss, and then being so stupid, and scared . . . weak. My fault._

_So stupid. _

He _was_ scared – or maybe that was just the adrenaline pumping through his body now . . . But Reid tried to speak, his voice tight and small and rasping with uncertainty.

"M-Morgan . . ."

The other man looked at him, the blank expression in his eyes making it clear that he wan't really seeing Reid.

"You – Kid, _I – I _made you flinch?"

Reid's lip trembled as he forced himself to not glance away.

"_I_ scared you?"

The woefulness in his whispered words was drilling deep into Reid' heart, and he couldn't stay there, couldn't look at the agony on Derek's face, couldn't stomach the guilt and embarrassment, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe –_

"I – I'm _so _sorry – " Reid choked out before being cut off by his own encroaching sobs, and, suddenly, as before, his mind went blank and his body took control.

And Spencer Reid ran out of the room, the BAU, the FBI Building – maybe hoping that, if he ran for long enough, he would be able to run right out of Virginia, the United States . . . and Derek Morgan's life.

And Morgan was left alone, leaning on a desk for support, his paperwork scattered about on the floor – not that he really cared anymore – and watched as the skinny man that he loved so much bolted away on long legs, faster than anyone would have thought, and wondering quietly to himself.

_Now what? _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Author's Endnote: **Oops – I did it again. I'm a bad person, I know.

Seriously, how the crap am I supposed to fix this?


	5. Seeing

**Author's Note: **Ew-kay, before you guys skip over my (as usual) terribly long pre-note, I just wanted to again apologize for that last nasty update . . . as I understand it, some of you got, eh, . . . _whiplash_, and that was never my intention. But, I vowed to fix things, and I am – or am working on it, you know.

This, too, was gonna be my last chapter, but it was becoming too long – even for my taste. Sew, on the plus side, there's gotta be another update coming soon. I just need to work out a few more kinks, and then, we'll be ready to wrap this up.

As per usual, I totally adore all of the follows, favorites, reviews, and alerts – you guys have no idea what those little email reminders do to me. Hee. Oh, and to my guest reviewers, **Anonymus**, **Lilly**, and **blinky555**, since I couldn't PM my gratitude, I thought I'd embarrass you up here, instead, You guys, similar to all the rest of my readers, rock like geology. :)

Also, the first section of this chapter is owed in part to **Sue1313**; her review gave me an idea, and some insight, into Reid's reaction, and spurred me into writing this next chapter a heck of a lot quicker (and better) than it would have been otherwise. Shank you (not literally!) girl!

(Also, a special love-shout to **Annber03 **and **Sue1313**; they restored any faith I'd lost in human awesomeness when they PM'd me well-wishes and virtual hugs. I adore you guys more than I can type. Thank you.)

**Warnings: **Hey, nary a spoiler to be seen! Some language, as always (you know me), references to a few bands I fangirl over, my favorite coffee brand . . . Nope, 'tis all . . . Oh, and I threw in a vague segue to one of my favorite Stephen King stories. (I'm nuts, if you haven't already figured that out.)

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spencer Reid had never been an athletic man – not by any means.

But on this night, more than any other, he might have made his old gym teachers proud, as he ran – down four different flights of stairs, through a huge marble foyer, across one street, up eight more, and straight onto the late-night subway, dodging businessmen, partying kids, and those torrid few doing the late-night walk of shame all the while.

He flew onto the hard, plastic seat without even thinking about it, slamming down and immediately closing his eyes and resting his aching head in his hands. His head that was aching, because, alas, the thoughts that were pounding around inside of it were numerous, and torturous.

_I have ruined __everything._

_Yes, yes you have._

_I kissed Derek._

_It's __Morgan.__ And, yes, yes you did._

_This is going to destroy us –_

_There is no 'us' –_

_I meant our friendship._

_Well, yes, that's a bit of a problem._

_So what do I do?_

No answers came into the sharp mind that was usually overflowing with them, and Reid moaned into his hands. This was _so bad. _

If the whole kissing thing hadn't completely demolished the relationship he and Derek – _Morgan,_ dammit – had had, then squealing like a girl when his friend had been yelling at him would certainly have done the trick.

_The worst part is,_ Reid thought to himself as he looked up around at the other people on the train, _I wasn't even scared. I mean, maybe for a second – but that was just __instinct__, it had nothing to do with Morgan. Surely – __surely!__ – he understands that?_

But Reid knew that Morgan _hadn't _understood that – the look on his face had been crushing, so devastated and shocked.

Morgan was so caring, so protective, so _good . . ._ for him to have to see the man he called little brother cowering before him . . . well, that was almost worse than springing a kiss on him unexpectedly.

Almost.

But Reid couldn't keep thinking in circles like this – it was torture.

He shook his head, and forced his mind to go completely blank, to let a solution come to him.

_Coffee . . . Sleep . . ._

Reid had to bark out a laugh at the fact that those two things – one of which he often had too much, and the other of which he never got enough – were his go-to solutions in this time of crisis. _They_ _would be._

Nonetheless, a yawn overtook the young man, and, even knowing how very much he needed it, Spencer Reid accepted the fact that tonight, like so many other nights before, he would not be getting any sleep.

He decided to go home, get pot of coffee brewing, and then maybe he could curl up with a good, thick book and try to escape from reality for a few hours . . .

_Or I could grab my blanket, sit on the floor, and figure out how long a transfer to a different BAU team would take_, Reid reflected bitterly, as the Metro pulled into his stop, and, grabbing his satchel, he merged seamlessly into the flood of people leaving the station.

Maybe he was being a bit dramatic. But then, so was the situation.

_So stupid. _

* * *

Derek Morgan had stood stock-still in the BAU bullpen for nearly an hour, lost in a tumble of painful and blaring thoughts, before he snapped out of the feelings that were eating away a the insides of him and realized that Spencer was no longer there.

_Shit._

Still dazed from what had happened – from everything that had happened – Morgan spent the next few minutes calmly, robotically, walking around the desks, picking up the files that had been scattered earlier during the argument.

_It wasn't an argument,_ Morgan thought, as he stacked up the numerous papers. _It was an attack._

But on whose part, even the experienced profiler himself couldn't say.

On the one hand, Spencer had been the one to initiate the kiss. _He_ had leaned in, _he _had found the other man's lips, _he_ had started it.

But it wasn't like Derek had been complaining, either.

_And then, _Morgan remembered, his stomach cramping up in guilt, _I was the one who pushed the kid – I was the one who screamed at him, I was the one who made him . . ._ Derek's train of though trailed off, shuddering slightly as he remembered _that sound_ that Spencer had made – he _never_ wanted the kid to sound like that again.

So he had to fix this.

That realization slammed into Morgan like a bus, and he dropped the huge stack of cases he had just spent fifteen minutes organizing onto the floor.

_What the Hell am I doing __here?_

Though admittedly not as fast as his counterpart had earlier in the evening, Derek Morgan still flew down those stairs, out into the parking garage, and into the seat of his treasured two-door Ford Escort.

He didn't notice the way that the frame of his car rattled when he slammed it into gear, didn't notice that he had forgotten to buckle his seatbelt when he revved the engine – and, even though there was little he loved more than Muse or U2 or the cool, smooth sounds of jazz, Derek Morgan certainly didn't notice the many notes of music that his favorite radio station flooded into the small interior of his vehicle as he navigated his way through the horror of late-night rush hour traffic.

The only thing on _his_ mind were thoughts of Spencer Reid – his best friend and confidant, fellow agent and little sibling, the smartest person he knew.

And the man he _did _love.

He couldn't lose him – no matter what.

So Derek would drive to his apartment, would sit the genius down, and make him talk this out with him – _everything. _The way Morgan felt, the thing Spencer had done tonight – and, maybe even, at the back of his mind, there was something else Derek needed to discuss with the other man . . . something he had said . . .

_"It wasn't a prank, Derek."_

So what was it?

Morgan came out of his reverie long enough to realize that he had arrived at Reid's parking complex, and he mechanically unfolded himself from the car, and walked into Spencer's building.

And then, up the stairs.

And then, down the hall.

And then, to the small, thatched door with a tidy brass "1408" in the center.

Morgan stood there for just one more second, trying to collect himself before he did this most terrifying, most strange, most new thing.

And then, raising his fist to rap sharply on the wood, Derek called out, almost too quiet to hear, "Reid?"

* * *

Spencer froze when he heard Morgan's voice on the other side of his door.

_Oh, God, no._

Certain that his fellow agent had made his way here with intentions nothing short of kicking his ass, Reid made no move to open the door as Morgan knocked again and repeated his query. Rather, he stood there, a freshly sweetened mug of his favorite Folger's flavor cupped in his palms, and the blanket his mother had knit him when he was little draped over his shoulders – all the thoughts he'd had of trying to settle into some foreign text completely vanished as, for the third time, Derek Morgan pounded on his door.

"Reid, man, c'mon. I know you're in there . . . I can smell coffee."

Spencer glanced down at his cup, and the over at the still-brewing machine on his counter.

_So stupid. _

His eyes shot up to the door as Morgan spoke again, his voice somewhat muffled by the thick layer of wood between the two men.

"Reid, . . ." he trailed off, and Reid took a step towards the door, thinking Morgan might have turned away, before the other man spoke again.

"I didn't come here to fight – or – or to hurt you. I swear, man."

Reid's lip trembled at the notion that Derek _still_ felt guilty about his reaction earlier.

"I just . . . we need to talk, Spencer."

It was only then that the young genius noticed that Derek – Morgan – had used his first name; something he had, Reid was sure, _never _done before.

So this _was _really serious.

Reid stood where he was for a moment – thoughts piled into his head too fast for even his marvelous brain to fully process. He wanted Morgan, he loved Morgan, he'd attacked Morgan, he'd hurt him . . . But now, the man was here, on his doorstep in the late hours, asking – _pleading – _to see him, not yelling or threatening . . .

And he was calling him "Spencer" . . .

_Now or never_, Reid decided, as he walked towards the door, knowing that, even though _now_ was much too soon, _never _would be far too late.

He slammed to a stop as he heard Derek's voice again through the wall.

* * *

It hurt Morgan tocome to terms with the fact that the door in front of him wasn't going to open. And he hated that, that either the kid was too scared, too pissed off, too unsure, too tired . . . well, none of them were options that he wanted.

But he knew that Spencer was, at least, in the apartment, and conscious, because he could _smell_ the coffee, and he could _see_ the lights on, and he could _hear _the sound of the floor boards creaking every time the young man on the other side of the door moved his feet.

"Spencer, . . . I get it." Morgan sighed, not really getting it at all – or, at least, wishing that he didn't have to – but resigned to the situation.

"You don't have to open the door." _But I wish you would._

"Just . . . Just do me one favor, Kid?" There came no negative sign from the apartment, so Morgan pushed on.

"Don't leave. I – you don't have to let me in, Spencer. But we need to talk, and I'm not leaving. Even if I have to camp outside of here, I'm not going." He paused, trying to gather up the courage to keep speaking.

"So . . . just – just do me this one thing, man. Just . . . Just stay there, and listen to what I have to say. Don't leave me talking to no one. _Please_, Spencer."

No sound came from the other side of the wall – not that Derek had expected any to – and, frustrated, Morgan sat down on the floor, leaning up against the peeling doorframe. He sighed, and rested his head against the old wood.

"Kid, we got a lot to talk about. But the first thing I have to say is that I'm sorry. I am. I know I was . . . horrible. I _was_, and I admit that – it's totally my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you, and I shouldn't have yelled at you – God, I shouldn't have scared you . . ."

Morgan gulped, swallowing the lump of shame in his throat, and continued.

"The thing is, Spencer . . . I didn't really know what to do . . . I'm – I'm _so bad_ about talking feelings with people, and . . . and private stuff . . ."

_God, I'm fucking this up even more._

"I would never want to hurt you, Kid. _Never. _And – and I guess I went about showing that in the wrong way, huh? I just . . . I was so . . . _startled_ tonight, Spencer . . . I mean, _you,_ of all people, being the one who . . ."

Morgan was completely lost in what he wanted to say.

"I reacted bad. _I get it. _And, I guess, the thing is . . ."

He _had_ to say it. It was the only way to explain.

"Kid, I love you."

* * *

Reid's heart skipped a beat, and then was still for just a few moments more.

_What?_

Derek Morgan's voice continued to seep in through the door, unaware that he had just paralyzed the man on the other side of it.

"I think – I mean, I know it. I have for awhile . . ."

* * *

Morgan really had no way of knowing if the kid was listening to him anymore – probably not, if he even had been before. This was Spencer Reid, after all – and he had just told him he _loved _him.

_Probably trying to climb out a window_, Morgan told himself firmly, not wanted to give himself even the tiniest fraction of hope for anything else.

Still, he'd taken the plunge. He couldn't stop now.

"I know it's crazy, Spencer. And – and besides that, it's stupid, and selfish, and totally fucking _insane_, but . . . We're best friends, Kid. And family. I tell you things that I don't tell anyone else, and I know you confide in me, too. We – we see things, and we do things, and we never get to find someone that understands . . . except that _you_ always _do."_

Morgan felt the tension begin to leave his back as he continued. _God, it was __so good_ _to finally be able to say these words out loud._

"At some point, I guess you just became more than a support system, or a cheerleader, or a little brother. I – I just, . . . the _love _changed, Spencer. _I _changed. And – and maybe you did, too."

* * *

Tears sprung into Reid's eyes as he listened to Morgan bear his soul.

It was true. _They'd both gone off-course, both fallen, . . . both changed. _

And now here they were. Derek Morgan, macho man of the FBI, telling Spencer Reid, awkward geek of the same organization, that he _loved him._

_Loved._

_Love._

_Him._

_Him._

_Derek Morgan __loved him._

It was too much to deal with – so Spencer didn't.

He put his still-full mug of coffee on the table, wrapped his blanket more snugly around his shoulders, crept silently up to the door, and slowly sunk down next to it. He leaned up against the wood, pressing his forehead into the green paint, and closed his eyes, trying to be brave, and trying to understand this . . . whatever _this _this was.

He thought he heard muffled choking on the other side of the door, and . . . _Oh, God. _Derek was crying. _Crying?_

A few tears slipped down Spencer's face, and again, his long arm began reaching towards the door handle – he had to open it, had to comfort Derek, had to make this right again . . .

But in his emotionally drained state, in his exhaustion and haze and coffee-deprived reality, the young man just didn't have it in him to do anything more, and his arm dropped back to his side, as he curled in as close to the door – as close to his best friend – as he could, and felt the tears dig tracks into the soft skin of his cheeks as he sat there.

And Spencer Reid let the smooth baritone of Derek Morgan's voice lull him to sleep.

* * *

Morgan was still talking, when he felt a very slight shift in weight against the door – so slight that the man figured he must have imagined it, and shook his head as he continued to speak quietly – by this point, he was no longer going in any particular direction, just reminiscing so keep himself awake, in case Spencer came to open the door.

He frustratedly swiped an arm at the spots in his eyes, and made himself stop the stupid crying – _crying, really? –_ before taking in a huge breath of air, and continuing.

" . . . And that first day in Baton Rouge, Kid? Do you remember that at all? God, I bet it was forty degrees outside, and you had on the most ridiculous sweater . . ."

The moon in the sky had long been setting when Derek Morgan, too, succumbed to the Sandman and fell into a dreamless slumber.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Author's Endnote: **Better?


	6. Believing

**Author's Note: **I now present to you the final installment of my first-ever, emotionally rife, completely screwed-up and melodramatic Morgan-and-Reid slashfic.

**Warnings: **Eh, I checked . . . nothing more dangerous than a Harry Potter reference and Reid cooking (oh, dear).

**Disclaimer: **I only own the complete set of all _Criminal Minds_ episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Spencer Reid woke up, the first thing that he focused on was the pulsing headache behind his left temple.

_Too much coffee_, he thought ruefully, rubbing his eyes and slowly uncurling himself to stretch out. _Caffeine overdose, late bedtime, falling asleep on the floor . . ._

Reid frowned slightly, and looked at the wad of blanket still tangled around his legs His hair was matted and had more than a few knots in it, he was wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes, and he had no memory of brushing his teeth or showering.

It was only when the young genius cast his eyes upwards, towards the mail-table where he'd haphazardly dropped his keys last night, and saw his satchel in a pile on the floor and the lock on his door twisted shut that he remembered.

_Morgan._

Scrambling up faster than anyone who'd only had a few hours sleep had a right to, Spencer jammed his eye into the small brass peephole, and stared into the hallway. The curled-up figure of Derek Morgan could just barely be seen out of the bottom of the frame.

Reid sighed in relief at first, and then his breathing sped up in panic.

_Derek's still here, . . . so, . . ._

So there was no way for Spencer to avoid talking to the man – it was Saturday, and, if Morgan had been serious about his threats last night, he could very well stay all day. _Although I do wish he'd have better things to do on his day off than . . ._

_Than what? _Reid questioned himself, as he folded up the quilt on the ground and set about picking up his living room from last night's little tirade.

It hadn't seemed like Morgan was angry at him anymore last night – and if he'd really wanted to kick Reid's ass, there were easier ways than driving forty-five minutes out into a strange part of the city.

Plus, there was that whole "I love you" thing . . .

_What had he meant . . . really?_

Reid wondered vaguely if this was how Ethan had felt when he had accidentally told the piano player that _he _loved _him _back in college. He washed a few dishes in the sink, and then began cleaning out the grounds from his coffee machine, putting on a fresh pot to brew before he headed for the shower.

Standing under the hot stream of blitzing water, Spencer Reid mulled over everything that Derek had told him last night.

He'd said that he thought that Reid was beautiful, and told him that he always had.

He'd confessed that he'd been confused about his own identity for a long time, and that was why he'd had such a hard time dealing with the fact that he was attracted to Reid – and that it had nothing to do with the young genius himself.

He'd apologized again and again and _again_ for the way he'd reacted at Reid's attempt – well, successful attempt, of course – to kiss him last night; he'd explained that he thought at first that Reid was trying to pull his leg because he'd made that stupid joke earlier in the morning, and that that thought had been so devastating to him that he'd given in to anger, rather than exposing himself to possible hurt.

He'd _cried, _too.

_God, _Reid lamented, turning off the nozzles and covering himself with a towel. He was already so poor with interactions . . . but tears, too?

_Intense _was really the only word that Reid could think of to describe the situation as he ran a comb through his wet hair.

_REALLY intense. _

**_Really_**_ intense, __**really**__ emotional, __**really**__ confusing . . ._

_But does it have to be? _Reid wondered as he began to get dressed, slipping on his favorite pair of tan cords before picking out this day's mismatching pair of socks (one red and adorned with Golden Snitches, the other purple with bright green toes).

_Does this have to become something big enough to wreck our lives? Derek isn't angry – he said so, at least. And he said he . . . he said that he __**loves**__ me . . . I love him . . . We're both adults. If this is real, . . . this could work out . . ._ Again, Reid shook his head of the thought – at least, for now. He'd learned long ago not to get his hopes up about such things. But . . .

_But even if we couldn't be together . . . like __**that**__ . . . we could still work with one another, still be friends . . . I don't want to lose Derek. _

And he didn't. Even if something was (and it felt like it would be) horribly off with the possibility of their relationship, Spencer loved Morgan enough not to let the man just be dropped out of his life. He would fight for them – even if it meant awkward and uncomfortable and more nights spent alone on the couch.

It would be worth it just to have a piece of Derek Morgan, even if it would break his heart not to have it all.

Reid caught his own eye above the sink in his mirror, and he took in his reflection.

_Still pale, still thin . . ._ But he could see something else, too. Not something that could be written down or drawn. It was like . . . fire. His eyes were blazing with determination, and his body taut with tension and fight.

He _would_ do this. He _had _to.

Spencer got up noiselessly, and made his way towards the kitchen.

One had to start off a big day with a good breakfast, after all.

* * *

Derek Morgan had been deep in a peaceful sleep when the sound of creaking wood brought him back into the realm of consciousness.

As soon as his eyes opened, they slammed back shut upon being assaulted by the harsh brightness of the fluorescent bulbs in Spencer's hallway. After a moment, he removed his interlaced fingers from over his eyes, and squinted up.

The creaking sound that had so rudely awakened him had come from a certain bright green door that lead into a certain BAU agent's personal apartment – and a certain genius-level doctor was standing in the doorway, just barely visible beyond the small crack he was peeking through.

As soon as he realized that Spencer was awake and present and looking at him, Morgan made to get up, shooting out a hand to steady him as he stood, his legs being quite stiff from having been curled up underneath him all night. He groaned as pins jabbed in the back of his knees.

Reid, looking slightly flustered at the noise, opened the door all the way and watched, hands folded protectively around his abdomen, as Derek stretched out.

When Morgan had finally lowered his hands back to his sides, he tried to meet Spencer's eyes – but the young man dropped his gaze immediately to the floor, and asked, "Would you like to come in? For – for some breakfast?"

Solemnly, Morgan nodded, and followed Reid into his apartment.

Looking around at what was usually a cluttered sort of living room, Derek was surprised at how upscale it looked – everything had been put away, and a few more bookshelves had been added since the last time he'd been here.

Morgan fervently hoped that _this _wouldn't be the last time that he'd ever be here.

"You cleaned up," he commented, his words tinged with double meaning – the place looked nice, yes, but he'd noticed that Reid was freshly showered, shaved, combed, and had changed into a darker pair of pants, with a long-sleeved army-green waffle shirt – one that Morgan remembered he had pushed Spencer into buying years ago.

_I was right – looks damn good on him. _

Reid gave no indication that he had heard his fellow agent speak except to give a small shrug and continue into his modest kitchen, picking at the sleeves of the top he was wearing.

When Morgan made his way into the adjoining room, he was somewhat taken aback by what Reid had prepared. Typically, with the skinny genius, the entire team delighted in mocking the fact that he must exist on coffee and graham crackers. Reid always took the jests with good humor, and kept right on drinking his sugared-up caffeine at the office. Morgan had always assumed that the kid simply never had learned how to plug in a microwave.

But here, on the table before him, was and abundance of evidence to the contrary. A wide dish of scrambled eggs sprinkled with parsley and tomatoes rested in the center of the table, with a small plate of toast and several little dishes of butter and jam. At the corner was a bowl of freshly fried and heavenly-smelling potatoes, with a few pieces of fruit lying about. And Spencer, still not making any noise, had crept over to the stove, where he stood turning strips of bacon emitting such a heavenly aroma that Morgan was starting to salivate.

Oh, and there was a fresh pot of coffee, of course.

Taking his cure from Reid, who was already sipping on a mug, Morgan grabbed the first cup he saw by the sink, filled it to the brim with dark roast, and sat down in the nearest chair, blowing on his coffee to cool it and watching the young man before him – who was busy pretending that he wasn't being watched.

Morgan finally broke the silence.

"I didn't know you could cook."

At first, he was certain that Spencer wasn't going to answer, and looked down. He was pleasantly surprised to hear the early-morning richness of Reid's voice, therefore, several minutes later.

"My mom was a fairly good cook, but, when I was little, it was Dad who always made the meals at our house. After, . . ." Reid's breath caught in his throat, and Morgan cursed himself for bringing up something that was apparently sensitive, when Spencer continued what he'd been saying. "After he . . . _left,_ it was just me to cook when Mom was having one of her bad days . . . I'm not a big culinary connoisseur, but fresh food is nice once in awhile, healthy . . . and it's not like someone's just gonna make food _for _me, so . . ." Spencer trailed off.

The silence was broken by a hesitant, shuffled statement from Derek. "_I _would cook for you."

Morgan watched at the kid's slight shoulders stiffened at his words, and Spencer made no move except to turn the heat off of the bacon on the stove, and move it to drain. After a moment, the silence was becoming too awkward to bear, and Morgan spoke again, his voice soft, but his tone still commanding.

"Spencer."

Finally having nothing else to do with his hands, Reid turned around – but he still wouldn't look at Morgan. Rather, he spoke to his own fidgeting fingers next.

"I wasn't _joking_ last night, Derek."

Morgan looked at Reid, and, slowly, so as not to startle the younger man, got up, and moved to stand right before him, staring at almost-eye level with the slumping genius. Nervous about his decision, but knowing that it had to be done – _it had to – _Derek reached out a hand, and tipped up Spencer's chin, forcing the other agent to look him in the eyes.

Reid's face was an eclectic tumble of emotions. His skin was warm to the touch, and as pale as usual – but there was a faint trace of color beneath his cheeks, and, when he looked into Morgan's gaze, his own eyes were shiny and terrified, his lips trembling slightly as he searched the other man's face, trying to gauge his reaction.

Morgan's voice was a velvet whisper, and he leaned in slightly when he said it.

"Neither was I."

And then it was Morgan's lips who claimed Reid's.

* * *

This time, it wasn't a kiss that lasted just one instant of just one hair of just one fraction of just one second. This kiss was longer, sweeter, more drawn-out, and more savored. Rather than being a pounce between two boys too nervous to admit their feelings for one another, this was a kiss between two grown-ups, two men who knew what they wanted – and it _was_ each other.

This time, it was Spencer Reid who pulled out of the kiss first – and not for a want of the incredible mouth of Derek Morgan to vacate his.

Rather, the young genius knew that death via oxygen deprivation was something of a serious issue, and he was finding it hard to breath.

When his head tipped back, he realized that, somehow, he and Morgan were actually embracing as they stood in his kitchen, their breakfast getting cold. He stared in Morgan's eyes, his face still clouded with wanting, and forced his voice not to tremor as he spoke.

"What do we do now, Derek?"

* * *

Morgan was the complete opposite of Reid, and while the other man looked slightly apprehensive and uncertain, Morgan looked (and felt) sated and content. His voice was smooth and confident to Reid's nervousness – the yang to his yin.

"I think, Pretty Boy," he started, savoring the small smile that alit Reid's eyes when he called him that, "that we should finish this breakfast you've prepared. And we should talk. A lot."

Reid was nodding already, but Morgan wasn't through.

"And then, Spencer, I want us to go to my apartment, so I can get dressed. And _then_, I think I'm taking you out – to the zoo; it's gorgeous out, and there's nowhere better to spend a sunny day."

Reid peeked up through the adorable strands of hair in his face, and asked, quietly, "Is this – is this a _date?"_

Nodding, Morgan didn't even try to hide the grin breaking through on his face. "If my company isn't enough to entice you, they _do_ have a Starbucks vender there, Spencer."

Reid's smile was almost as full as Morgan's as he spoke again.

"Say that again."

"What?"

"My name. Spencer. You never call me Spencer. But, I . . . Say it again, Derek."

Morgan nodded, and took pleasure in the shudder that ran through the other man's body as he stepped closer, leaned in, and whispered, "Spencer."

Reid had unconsciously moved in, as well, burying himself into the other man's warm chest, and savoring the feeling of being held like _this, _at _last_, by the person he had wanted to hold him all along**_. _**

Wrapping his arms around the much skinnier man, Morgan spoke into Reid's hair.

"You're gonna have to call me Derek, Pretty Boy."

Reid nodded his assent, and then looked up into Morgan's eyes, and spoke quietly, his voice sultry in it's depth.

"I love you . . . Derek."

Morgan gave a wolfish grin, and returned, "I love you, . . . Spencer."

At that, the younger man moved too fast for Morgan to comprehend, and found his lips unprepared.

But that stopped neither of them from sinking into one more plain, simple, perfect, messy, _delicious _kiss between lovers.

* * *

_"It has been said many times before that for one to fully understand something, they must see it to believe it. But you can become blind by seeing each day as a similar one; each day is different, and brings a miracle of it's own. All it is is a matter of paying attention to that miracle." – Paul Coehol_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Author's Endnote: **I will never stop being grateful to everyone who stuck with me, and with this story. Every single one of you is inspiring and wonderful, and I do this for y'all just as much as I do me.

Someday soon, there shall be more. Until, then, I'm outie.

Much ado,

– Grayson


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